


Your Tears Burn Like Fire

by FieryPen37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Dark!Dany, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Sorry, Jonerys Valentine's, Jonerys Week, Post-War of the Dawn, Targaryen Madness, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 10:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13738752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FieryPen37/pseuds/FieryPen37
Summary: After all the wars are won, Daenerys contemplates the cost.





	Your Tears Burn Like Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is a hybrid fic of the Jonerys Valentine's Week, Day 1, Dark! Dany and Jonerys Week, Angst. Kudos or comments appreciated.

Your Tears Burn Like Fire

 

 

A gentle breeze teased the gauzy curtains of the queen’s bedchamber as night settled over King’s Landing. Crushed flower petals danced in the wind beneath lattice-covered windows. The teasing breeze brought her the freshness of spring and sea, blowing away the lingering fetor of King’s Landing. Daenerys removed the crown and tossed it on the table. It was a dreadful heavy thing, made of barbarous black iron spikes twined with blue roses of hammered silver leaf.

Daenerys Stormborn, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and First Men, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, Queen of Ashes, Destroyer and Conqueror and a dozen less charitable titles not voiced in her hearing. A headache pounded at her temples, she rolled her neck to alleviate the strain. Aching to her very marrow, Daenerys sank into a chair with a flutter of black silk.

“Y—Your Grace, may I fetch anything for you?” said the insipid Crownlands girl, what was her name? Dollys? Jeyne?

“No. I would like to be left alone,” Daenerys said, sloppily pouring a glass of Arbor gold. “Couldn’t I just--”

“I said _go_!” Daenerys snapped, throwing the glass in the idiot girl’s direction. It shattered with a tinkle of Myrish glass, the Arbor gold spreading in a yellow puddle on the cracked tiles. The girl fled, weeping. The door banged against its jamb, bouncing back to hang open with a sullen creak. Outside, a shrill roar shattered the air. _Drogon_.

“Peace, my love,” Daenerys whispered in Valyrian. She rose, slamming the door shut. The two knights standing guard didn’t even flinch.

Daenerys poured another glass and let the sweet gold wine slide down her throat like silk. Her Hand Tyrion had the right of it, the world was easier to bear with a glass of wine in hand. She contemplated her hated bed as she drank. Four-posted and canopied with the finest white silks, Daenerys still rarely slept. Not since . . . With a curse, she shied away from such thoughts. Only pain waited there. Endless _pain_.

A creak of rope sounded behind her, a quiet thud.

The breeze blew, bringing her the masculine scent of leather and sweat. A smile curved her lips.

“Have you come to kill me, Jon Snow?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. Gods, she’d forgotten how handsome he was. That wild hair tied back in a severe, those deep sad eyes, the softness of his mouth.

“Yes,” he said, garbed in black. Jon made no move to step toward her, nor did she turn to face him. The sight of him pierced her, burned her, so she looked away to address the faded murals on the wall.

“I understand.”

“I want answers, first,” he said, voice harsh, accent thick as it was when he was angry, or roused. Daenerys shut her eyes, trying not to remember those sweet nights spent tangled together, their loving by turns tender and rough.

“Ask your questions and get on with it,” she said wearily, draining her glass and throwing it down to join its twin in shattered pieces on the floor.

“Why did you do it?”

“As the resident Destroyer, and mad as well, you’re going to have be more specific on _which_ atrocity.”

“You know what I’m talking about. Winterfell, when the Night King ki--”

“ _Don’t say it_!” she shrieked, clapping her hands over her ears. A sharp, tearing agony rose up in her throat, a wild clawing thing that shredded her mind and soul. _When a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin._

“Just tell me why. Tell me why. Please,” Jon said.

A glance over her shoulder found him hanging onto his equanimity by his fingernails, quivering with leashed rage. The sight perversely, calmed her. There was a hint of a Targaryen temper in that cooler Stark blood.

“I can’t remember, exactly. Some days I remember it one way, and then another. The madness, I suppose, fracturing my memories. Like father, like daughter, they say. Every poor fool who was ever born into this cursed family,” she spat, bitterness an evil weed rooted in her heart.

“The war was all but won. Bran, he . . . he learned he and the White Walkers were linked. Drove a dragonglass dagger into his heart to stop it. As he bled, the Night King threw his spear . . .” Jon said. Daenerys turned to face him at last, and saw his heart shatter in his eyes. Tears slipped down his cheeks. The image of him holding a dagger doubled and tripled as tears brimmed and overflowing from her unblinking eyes.

“In every twisted thought, I see that. I see the Night King kill Rhaegal underneath you. I see my child fall . . .” Daenerys broke off, choking on her grief.

Jon closed the distance between them in three strides, filling her vision with his beautiful face. The sobs tapered into laughter, so harsh it hurt her throat. Mastering herself with some effort, Daenerys couldn’t stifle the trembling, toothy smile. There was horror in his somber expression.

“Ah, you don’t think the mad can remember sanity? Oh, no. We do. We do. It’s worse on those days, like living in darkness and waking one day to the piercing light of day. It _hurts_.” Daenerys kneaded her temple, her other hand fisted in Jon’s tunic, half-pushing, half-clinging.

Jon’s face twisted and in those sweet dark eyes, she saw the rage and pain that brought him to her rooms, knife in hand. One hand rose, curling in a handful of her hair, yanking her head back. Having him close, even like this, was enough to make her body ache, her sex to grow wet. Daenerys made a low sound, biting her lip. The blade was a cold kiss against her throat.

“You killed them. You and Drogon burned them! All of them. Clegane, Jorah, Theon, Missandei, Grey Worm, Brienne, Davos, Sansa, Arya, the whole fucking castle! You killed them all!” he said, breath coming in great, wracking sobs. His grief was an echo of her own. Tears trickled in silver streaks down her face.

“I watched as Rhaegal died in the snow,” her voice broke into a hoarse whisper, “I thought you were dead too. There was only red. Only red and only screaming inside. ‘Burn them all!’ I said. Don’t blame Drogon for listening to me. Kill me, Jon. It’s why you came. _Kill me_.” Jon dragged in a shaking breath, his grip yanking her head back to a painful angle.

“I should. I _should_!” he said, shaking her until her teeth rattled.

“Do it. End it,” Daenerys said, pressed so close he could feel the shape of her swollen belly.

“Is . . . is it--”

“Of course it’s yours, Jon. Do you think I’d have anyone after _you_?” she said gently.

The knife fell from his hand to clatter on the floor.

Sobbing, Jon threw his arms around her. Daenerys melted into him, clinging to him as they both wept like children for all they had lost.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jon said, cupping the ripe weight of her pregnant belly.

“I didn’t know myself until after Drogon and I took King’s Landing. That was when I felt him for the first time,” she said, covering his hand with her own.

_Fire and Blood_ , the words of their house. As spring broke over Westeros, Daenerys crowned herself Queen of Ashes in the ruin of King’s Landing. Jon looked at her, his heart in his eyes.

“What do we do?” he asked. Daenerys pressed her forehead to his, breathing deep of his warmth and presence. The mad voices in her head were quiet when he was near. The din of screams only a faded echo, like the sound of the ocean trapped in a shell.

“I never stopped loving you. I’m yours. All the mad, broken pieces of me,” she said. Jon laid his hand against her cheek with a tender smile.

“I love you too. And maybe that’s enough,” he said.

“Maybe.”    


End file.
